All grown-ups were once children, although few of them remember it.

I'm reading The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. I had been wanting to find something . . . lighter to read to off-set all of this heavy theology (currently steeped in: Aquinas). I didn't even know I had The Little Prince with me until, after getting up today, I bent down to find something on my bookshelf unrelated to school with which I could occupy my mind for a little while. And I found it. Underneath Strunk's Elements of Style (which I also considered; yes, I read that for fun. The craft of communicating well is a true art form).

I began reading, and soon I was in Neverland. The appreciation of children, the loss of not only innocence, but imagination that seems to plague adulthood; J.M. Barrie flickered in and out of my head as Saint-Exupery eased me out of my box and into his world that feels so close yet so fantastic.